


Forget About the Cookies

by crossingwinter



Series: ASOIAF Drabbles & Ficlets [12]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both take the baking of cookies very seriously.  It might turn out to be a problem.  (Spoilers: It won’t.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget About the Cookies

“Myrcella Baratheon what are you doing?”  Myrcella’s head snapped around to see Sansa standing right behind her, brandishing a fork.

Myrcella blinked.  “I’m putting the butter in the microwave.”

Sansa looked as though her eyeballs were about to pop out of her skull, bounce around the kitchen for a moment or two, then propel themselves in attack formation at Myrcella.  It was mildly jarring, actually.  Myrcella took a step back, letting the butter finish falling out of the wax paper wrapping and into the glass bowl on the counter.

“Don’t you dare,” said Sansa seriously.

“Why not?  It keeps them from going too hard in the oven.”  Myrcella took the baking of chocolate chip cookies very seriously.

So, apparently, did Sansa.

“Stop it! You’re spoiling it! You’re spoiling everything!”  Sansa lunged for the bowl as Myrcella picked it up to put it in the microwave.  Caught between wrestling with Sansa—during which the bowl of butter would undoubtedly be dropped and shatter on the floor—and having her way, Myrcella shoved the butter into the microwave, slammed the door shut on it, and pressed the quickstart button. Then, she leaned against the microwave with her hand flat on the door, an eyebrow raised at Sansa.  

Sansa glared at her.  “Fine,” she said through pursed lips.  “Have it your way then.”

“I will.”

They stood in silence until the microwave dinged.  Then Myrcella pulled out the bowl of molten butter—well, mostly molten anyway.

“You know what,” she said, “as a sign of truce, I won’t finish melting it.  It can still be partially solid.  That do?” She put the butter on the counter, smiling up at Sansa.

Sansa was a good head taller than her, with red hair that usually fell in straight sheets on either side of her face, but was now pulled back in a high ponytail that swung between her shoulderblades.  Sansa was glowering at her.  “Fine.  Though I want you to know it’s not because I support you, but rather I want my cookies to be good.”

“Our cookies,” Myrcella smiled, “will be delicious.”  She handed Sansa a spatchula.  “Now, let’s mix.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but accepted the proffered spatchula, mixing and mashing the butter into sugar and eggs and vanilla.  The smell of the dough was almost overpowering.  It would have been if it hadn’t been for a hint of lavender in the air.

“You know,” Sansa said after a moment, “I think this might actually work.”

Myrcella tried very hard not to smirk.  All right, she tried a little.  Maybe.  “I know what I’m doing.  Do you know how many cookies I had to make for Tommen’s bake sales?”

“I made just as many for Bran’s and Rickon’s,” Sansa snapped back.  “And I didn’t say that these would be better than mine. Just that this might work.”

“Suit yourself,” Myrcella shrugged, reaching for the bowl of flour and baking powder.  

She poured the dries into the wets in silence, doing her best to ignore the way that Sansa’s hair curled at the back of her neck, wisps of auburn coming loose from her ponytail.  When Myrcella had been younger—sixteen or so? Sometime in high school—she’d become obsessed with the Starks’ red hair.  She’d fancied herself smitten with Robb and his bright blue eyes and his easy laugh.  And now Robb was far away, and engaged, from what she heard, and Myrcella still saw Sansa with regularity, and it was a different Stark’s red hair that captured her imagination.

She didn’t know why—she really didn’t.  Well, she did.  Her mother had accused her of turning lesbian in college (as if “turning lesbian” was a thing that happened, she’d ranted to her Uncle Jaime—who had looked thoroughly horrified to be trapped on the receiving end of that conversation).  What she meant was—she didn’t know why she was now, after so many years, still fixated on the red of Sansa’s hair, the way that it seemed to burn against her skin as she vigorously stirred the cookie dough.

“What are you looking at?” Sansa asked.

“Nothing,” Myrcella said easily.

“Well, if you’re not looking at anything, could you add some more flour?” Sansa asked.

“Your wish, my command,” she replied easily, tipping the bowl over and covering the light brown dough with white powder.

“A little bit at a time, ‘Cella!” Sansa yelped.

Myrcella shrugged, grinning.  “It makes no difference.”

“You’re never allowed in my kitchen again,” grumbled Sansa.  “You’re a menace.

“I’ve been told.  I got kicked out of my lesbian baker’s club.”

Sansa snorted.  “Lesbian baker’s club?”

“Well, that’s what I called it anyway.”

“How many of there were you?”

“Three.  I founded it.  And they still kicked me out.  Bastards.”

“I’d kick you out too.”

“Traitor.”

“Traitor?” Sansa laughed.  “I don’t think I’m a traitor.  I think we’ve been well and truly adversaries ever since you tried to convince me that pecans weren’t essential to the cookie making process.”

“They’re not,” Myrcella replied dryly.

“Wrong again, sweet ‘Cella.”

Myrcella made a face.  Sansa laughed.  “Grab the chips?  They’re behind you.”  She found them, ripped open the plastic and dumped the semi-sweet chips (at least they’d agreed onthat) into the bowl.  Sansa continued stirring.

“Want one?” Myrcella held a chocolate chip in her thumb and forefinger.  Sansa opened her mouth and she popped it in.  “There you are.  Nothing like eating your ingredients before you’re done.”

Sansa frowned, twin crevices appearing between her eyebrows.

“What’s the matter?” Myrcella demanded.  “Disapprove of the eating bit?”

“No,” said Sansa slowly. “It’s nothing.”

“Of course it’s not nothing,” sighed Myrcella.  She took a step towards the bowl, towards Sansa.  “What is it?”

And before she knew what was happening, Sansa’s lips were on hers, her hands twisting in Myrcella’s curls, and Myrcella couldn’t tell if the groan was coming from her or from Sansa.  She didn’t much care.  How could she care, when Sansa’s tongue—still tasting of chocolate—was in her mouth, when Sansa’s fingers were caressing her cheeks, when her own hands had somehow ended up clutching Sansa’s bum and pulling their hips together.

Another groan and her lips moved from Sansa’s to the pale neck, kissing along the line between pale skin and captivating red hair.  A shiver that followed Sansa’s finger down her spine, a knot in her gut as that finger toyed with the hem of her t-shirt, as if unsure whether or not it was allowed underneath.  As if there existed a world where they wouldn’t be.  She almost snorted, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—didn’t want to scare Sansa off, even though Sansa’s mouth was now pressing hot kisses to her own neck and she had shifted her stance to allow one of Myrcella’s legs in between her legs.

A pause, a break, as Sansa pulls away slowly, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, the beginnings of a love bite on her neck.  (Myrcella was proud of that.)

“I—” Sansa said, then stopped, eyes dropping to the ground.  

Myrcella leaned forward and kissed her again.  “The cookies can wait, if you want,” she whispered.

This time it was definitely Sansa who groaned, her lips were on Myrcella’s again.

She didn’t know when their clothes came off—altogether too late, in her own opinion; she didn’t know when they sunk to the floor—a good move, or else they wouldn’t be able to share the cookies with anyone because some health codes should probably be observed in private kitchens; she didn’t know when it was that Sansa’s mouth wrapped around her nipples, or when it was that Sansa’s fingers—tentatively, so tentatively—found her opening and slid in.  And it was all the better because when had she ever believed that this (this!) of all things would ever happen.

And when she slid down between Sansa’s legs, her tongue running the full length of Sansa’s cleft before lazily circling her clit, all she could think was how nothing—not even chocolate chip cookies with melted butter so that they stayed soft long after baking—tasted better than Sansa.

 


End file.
